


100 ways to say...

by Wrathofscribbles



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-11 09:45:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15312798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: You're a goddamn pain in ass.





	1. "Pull over.  Let me drive for a while."

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, yes, I am setting myself the impossible goal of writing 100 (small) chapters for this thanks to a prompt list on tumblr. RIP my sanity.

The wounds still pain him, Noctis knows.  He's seen the winces and the cautious trek of fingers over the silver cracks marking the brutal cut of ancient Lucian magic through his body, the way those same fingers jump away as though shocked when Nyx finds a particularly scarred area, thick and layered and painful to see.

His birthright did that.  His  _ancestors_ did that, tore into his lover's body like they had a right to, like they owned him, and Noctis can't fix it.  He can't kiss the pain away or brush the marks off his flesh, over and over until every trace of them is gone, can't use magic to heal what magic caused, doesn't want to  _try_ after the last attempt sparked embers up Nyx's arm and ripped a noise raw and  _wounded_ from his throat.

But it's not the physical wounds that cause the most trouble.  It's the mental damage, the horrors locked up inside Nyx's skull and refusing to come out even when he gives Noctis the key, shuddering in his arms as if the Glacian is in the room with them and breathes on him, dusts her cold frost under the covers and freezes the words in his mouth before he can share them, before he can share the burden pulling him from sleep in the dead of night, skin clammy to the touch and eyes distant,  _wild_.

"What is it?"  He asks.

"Them," Nyx whispers back, and of course it's always  _them_ , flickering on the edge of awareness, watching, waiting, "I denied them a life.  They're not happy."

 _Fuck them, they can't have you!_ But he doesn't respond, chooses instead to wrap himself more firmly around Nyx, tucking his lover's head under his chin and playing with his braids in a way that used to soothe.

 _You get him over my dead body_ , he thinks, and knows they've heard when he claims the next Armiger weapon and its punch through his chest is that much sharper,  _sudden_ , driving him to his knees with a grunt of pain and a mutual understanding that Nyx is off limits.   _For now_.

* * *

"Pull over.  Let me drive for a while."  He says, orders really, when Nyx rubs at his temple yet again, and meets the quick glare thrown his way with a raised eyebrow.

"I'm fine."

"Bullshit.  You've had less sleep than Iggy," currently snoring quietly between Prompto and Gladio and at serious risk of drooling, "pull over.  Now."

The Regalia cruises to a halt and he clambers over, forcing Nyx up and out of the seat lest he get a lap full of unimpressed Prince and a blaring car horn sure to wake the dead and incur Ignis's wrath.  He puts on a good show of cursing up a storm as he trudges round to claim the spot now vacated, but Noctis isn't fooled.  Exhaustion makes him slower, cranky, worsens whatever ache lingers in those thrice-damned scars.  He catches whip-quick fingers before they can start wandering over them once Nyx is settled, draws them to his mouth and brushes tender kisses over each knuckle when weary eyes turn a thousand questions on him.

"Sleep, Nyxie.  I've got this."

_I've got you._

 


	2. "I brought you an umbrella."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vampire AU

He's heard fairy tales of Altissia, the white and cream beacon in crystal blue waters, floating undisturbed for time immemorial, protected by the fearsome serpent slumbering in the bottomless depths below.  He's heard of the scents permeating the air - fresh baked loaves and a generous helping of herbs and spices, salt from the sea and the waves lapping over one's toes on the lower levels of the city, the perfume of potted flowers on almost every windowsill, cradled in baskets framing the doorway of every shop and restaurant, the wisteria flourishing in the more remote locations only accessible by nearly breaking one's neck hopping over rooftops and navigating old, crumbling walkways and staircases, or risking Leviathan's wrath by swimming over to a handful of the small chunks of land literally stuck in the middle of nowhere under the pretense of a romantic getaway and a picnic for two.

"You could have borrowed a gondola, you know."  Nyx helpfully pointed out once, and he shoved the smug bastard back into the water for lack of a better retort.

He's heard of Altissia's  _beauty_ , one of the  _wonders_ of the world, perhaps even more so than the distant gleam of the Disc of Cauthess or the rock of Ravatogh's blistering heat and violent fire.  He's heard the admiration in the hushed whispers and gagged over the poetry spun about it, sickly sweet and  _pretentious._ The city had even bewitched  _Clarus_ , a smile flirting around the mouth Noctis would have sworn to the day he died was permanently stuck in a grimace, brought a sparkle to shifty eyes always on the lookout for assassins and shadows moving in suspicious manners.

Honestly?  Noctis wants a refund for all the false advertisement and expectation.  Nobody thought to mention  _the fucking rain_ that has him chilled to the bone after being caught in a sudden downpour - the kind one might expect if, say, a massive serpent happened to sneeze without warning and send up a tsunami or a  _certain_ god of thunder had one too many drinks in his merriment.  Nobody thought to mention the  _stench_ of fish and decay clogging up the bowels of Altissia, thick and rancid in his nostrils when they hunt down the daemons that have reached even this supposed sanctuary, lurking where the lanterns are dimmest with sharp knives and sharper talons (and in one case a goddamn katana).  Nobody thought to mention the cracks straining under the bright colours splashed across so many of the buildings, lending joy to a city on the verge of collapse under its own weight, the occasional patter of the Maagho's ceiling flaking away into the surrounding water and the buildings that don't stand  _straight_ and proud through the test of time.  He doesn't  _understand_ how the residents can walk around with their eyes shut to the imminent danger, can think their home a  _jewel_ in such a state of disrepair, so  _certain_ the goddess will keep danger at bay that they miss the signs of architecture in need of maintenance, of families needing rehomed for their own safety.

It's pretty on the outside, but it doesn't survive scrutiny.

Or the elements, for that matter, a sudden gust of wind nearly tumbling him back down the stairs he's stubbornly climbed despite the protesting screams from aching muscles and bruised bruises.  Logically he knows a high vantage point is a tactical advantage for one with such sharp eyesight, he  _knows_ they can't trust the Empire to keep its nose out of everyone else's business, he  _knows_ they should expect an invasion or people tailing them or even  _Loqi_ appearing in another mech suit to trample them with, but really,  _seriously_ , in this moment he wants nothing more than to track the vampire down, kiss him stupid, and then tie a cape to his back and see how  _he_ likes fighting against the weather's determination to sweep him up and away.  The highest, draftiest point in a city caught in a storm hardly seemed like the safest place but trust Nyx to go lurk in it anyway.  Inconsiderate bastard.

"How goes the first real foray into diplomacy?"  Nyx says in a sudden, quiet whisper  _right at his ear_ and never mind the storm and the gale-force winds, Noctis very nearly  _launches himself_ over the railing from fright alone, Armiger bursting into life around him as he attempts to warp  _away_ from the (non-existent) danger.  An arm clad in leather and sodden fur locks around his waist and keeps him from following the magic's path, pulls him tight against a solid body that's colder than his surroundings, the only warmth about his companion the laughter that spills from his lips when Noctis jams his elbow into unguarded ribs.  Ineffective, but it's  _something_ to speak of his outrage.

"You'd know if you'd been there, asshole."

"I've done enough listening to political arguments and posturing through doors to last me another three lifetimes, spitfire.  Sorry not sorry."

"... The first Secretary has  _graciously_ agreed to meet us tomorrow for 'further discussion'.  I'm honestly tempted to kidnap Luna myself and warp her to Leviathan's lair just to get this over with before we're all grey and dust.  All this talking and negotiation is useless with Niflheim right on Accordo's doorstep."

"Let them have their negotiations, helps them feel like they're important," is the soft response, lips brushing at his neck making him shudder, breath stuttering to a halt somewhere between lungs and throat.  He feels the curve of a smile against his pulse point, and elbows Nyx again for good measure.  "You're cold."

"Of course I'm cold!  I'm caught out in the middle of the heavens pissing on us, aren't I?  And you!  I brought you an umbrella since  _blending in_ seems to have escaped your brain again.  How many humans do you know just saunter around without a jacket on until they look like a drowned cat?"

"Funny, it looks like that's what you're doing right now."

_"I hate you."_

"You love me, really.  Even more so if I throw in the temptation of hot chocolate, hm?"

"... Make it two and I  _won't_ contemplate trying to pull your fangs."

"Brat."

"Bat."

"Ah, but I'm  _your_ bat."

"Do you ever shut up?"

"With some  _persuasion_ , perhaps."

"Does a stake through the heart count?"


	3. "One more chapter."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dragon Age AU

There's a storm rolling in, lashing the windows with rain, a vicious sound that reminds him too much of the demonic charge as all manner of horrific bodies pull themselves from the Fade with the intent of tearing flesh from bone and feasting on marrow and blood.  He  _feels_ it clearer than he hears it, however, the distant fury of nature waking herself from a long slumber echoing in his bones, a  _rumble_ within, pulling him from the haze of drugged sleep and back into a body battle-worn and  _gutted_ of its magic, emptied beyond the point of exhaustion by the removal of the anchor... as well as his arm.

If he lingers on it, he swears he can still feel a phantom weight by his side, a wiggle where fingers would pluck at the blanket tucked snug around him and keeping the draft at bay, an  _agony_ like no other with every flare of ancient magic through a vessel too weak to hold it, through veins that bled and burst and  _burned_ around it.  The Dread Wolf's work, destruction and decay woven so tightly together it was no wonder the world fell apart around it, a  _miracle_ he hadn't crumbled to dust right along with it.  If he lingers on it, he can feel the jagged edges where his magic should be, wincing with every brush against them.

_How long until it returns to me?_ He'd asked, and been given no answer but a look of sympathy, one of pity, and he'd closed his eyes to the medicine if only to deny what they will not say.

_It might never come back_.

A mage without his magic.  A warrior without his weapon.  A shell without its soul.

Fingers in his hair pull his eyes open again, weary frown slipping from his face as he meets eyes like the noonday sky, full of love and a concern that doesn't turn his stomach when it's Noct's own sarcastic brand.  There's a silent question perched on the tip of his tongue, in the curious tilt of his head and the perk forward of ears usually hidden by the dark fall of his hair, in the feather-light touches to the shadows under Nyx's eyes.

"There's a storm coming," he says in answer, and turns so his cheek is against a cool spot on his pillow, his face tucked close to a bony hip, his breath a gust that teases quiet laughter from his lover's throat even as Noctis plucks the book from where he'd discarded it on the bedside table.

"One more chapter for the tired soul?"  Noctis asks, flipping through the pages until he finds the leather cord marking his page, runs lyrium-lined fingers over the words until he finds his place, and Nyx hums in agreement.

"Please."   _Distract me.  Save me.  Take me away from this broken thing I've become_.


	4. "That's okay, I bought two."

"So."  Crowe says, in that  _tone_ only Crowe can use, the one that spells imminent doom, the one followed by an unblinking stare capable of spearing even Drautos to his seat.  And right at this very moment Nyx knows what it feels like to be  _prey_ , cowering in his den and watching as a coeurl's jaws push closer and closer, vicious teeth snapping for his neck.

"So."  He parrots back, taking a swig of coffee if only to give his hands something to hold onto as it burns down his throat, something to keep them from  _fussing_ , from fidgeting, from betraying nerves few people can inspire.  There's a dark look on her face, in her eyes, the daemon hunter come out to play rather than the one he's cautiously come to consider as sister figure without trampling all over Selena's memory.   _Nervous_ indeed - he'd prefer marching up to the King just now and asking for Noct's hand in marriage rather than sit here and wait out Crowe's silence and the foul atmosphere it brews.

Another mouthful.

"You're fucking the Prince."

 _And right back out it comes_.

Coughing, sputtering, white noise in his ears and Crowe's look morphing into a grin of victory even as she plucks a tissue from her bag and dabs at the skin caught by his hacking spray.   _How did she know?_   They'd been careful, keeping a respectful distance between them in public, one befitting a Prince and his Glaive, they'd kept an eye out for any familiar faces in the shadows before sneaking close for some affection, a clasp of hands here, a kiss on the cheek there, murmured questions and whispered conversations and smiles for just the two of them.   _How, damn it?_

"I told Pelna he was walking around with his eyes shut.  How long has this been going on for?  Does the King know?"

"Months.  No, he doesn't, and it's going to  _stay_ that way.  And I haven't - we're not -  _it's not like that, Crowe_."

"Really?  You do realise he's put a hole in that hoodie already, right?"

"That's okay, I bought two."

"Ha!  So it _is_ yours.  I was wondering, it's too broad in the shoulders for him but I couldn't picture Amicitia's kid in something so awful."

"It is  _not_."

"It's lime green, Nyx.  Anyone wearing it sticks out like a sore thumb.  So no fucking.  Have you kissed?  Cuddled?  Has there been sweeping off feet?  Movie marathons?  Restaurants?  Wooing?  When did you two meet?  When did this become a thing?   _And why the fuck did you not think to tell me?"_

_Astrals have mercy on his soul and strike him down now._


	5. "There's enough room for us both."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another AU! Featuring mer!Nyx this time. One day I'll write an AU with Noctis as the altered party, but that day is not today.

The Citadel has many hidey-holes to keep its secrets.  This Noctis knows very well, having come across a fair few during his childhood with the help of the lady of shadows and many names, the cloaked ancestor who most frequently winked into existence when he grew frustrated with the shackles of duty and royal decorum, a finger pressed to ghostly lips as she beckoned him closer with her free hand, the one so often clasped onto her Shuriken, ever ready and  _spoiling_ for a fight.  He's come across hidden rooms behind the immovable weight of the bookcases lining the Citadel's sprawling expanse of a library, false bottoms in the cupboards still home to aged parchment and  _quills_ and inkpots long since devoid of their liquid treasure.  He's found the trapdoors in the corridors, marked by tiny fissures in a sea of black marble or switches tucked into the backs of picture frames, hidden by clever engraving leading the eye elsewhere, the  _lever_ disguised as one of the horns curving from the Infernian's temple down by the gallery housing old weapons and history and treaties, as much a relic to the past Lucis as any text Ignis can drop on top of his history textbooks with a scalding remark about the falsehoods and biased teaching.

The Rogue even found him another route -  _several_ actually - out of the stifling routines and watchful eyes after the Crownsguard discovered the windows in the gardens  _not_ designed with children in mind and ordered immediate replacements to deny any adventurous spirit easy access to the world beyond.  He despises the cameras hidden in the foliage, too, so much so that he picks his way through his mother's flowers  _carefully_ , avoiding the sweep of most of them when all he wants is peace and quiet in the place she loved most.

But the most startling discovery of all isn't a way to freedom for him, not with his limited lung capacity and a system of tunnels collapsed and off limits through disuse and neglect.  It's a cave, deep in the bowels of the Citadel, overlooked when electricity was introduced through the many floors and so lit only by the sconces his magic ignites when he grazes his fingers on the wall, finding the place where man-made architecture and nature's own work meet, where his home  _stops_ and something else  _begins_.  And there, further in, reflecting the firelight back at him like a dozen flickering stars, is a body of water that vanishes under the rockface, dark and quiet and not quite matching the marks left with the passage of time.  If the water level can go higher, if it is not a stagnant, rancid pool, then it must lead  _somewhere_ outside, somewhere beyond, somewhere with a fresh supply.  A lake, perhaps?  Or does it snake under the east wall and past the city limits, far out to sea?

* * *

It becomes his place of retreat when he feels his knees buckling under the weight of responsibility, orders left with Ignis and Gladio to leave him be for a few hours or a weekend, a table and chair and sleeping bag finding home safe from the water's edge, a steady current of lightning magic kept in a handful of spheres stolen from the Glaives' supply cabinets more than enough to power the radio he manages to smuggle from the Citadel one night without being seen, the Rogue acting as his lookout around ever corner and down every staircase, invisible to all but him.  He brings books with him, magazines, a newspaper when the fancy strikes, but never his textbooks, nor reports or paperwork.  It's a solitary place, maybe a lonely one, but a necessity for his sanity, and he refuses to defile it with his studies.  He sticks to fire as much as he can, but hooks up a lamp when his eyes protest the strain.

And for a while it is his own.  A slice of peace and not-quite paradise all to himself and an ancestor who knows how to keep a secret... until one day a voice at his back has him summoning every weapon stored away in his Armiger and scrambling towards the door with a colourful display of curses rebounding off the cave walls until all he hears is his own voice over and over, thinks for one foolish moment that he  _imagined_ the other - but no, he didn't.  There is  _someone in the water_ , someone he hadn't seen when he first entered, someone he hadn't  _heard_ until that very moment, and he cannot help the drop of his jaw in shock, or the sputter of the flames lighting his sanctuary in response to his uncertainty.  Such inattention was bound to get him  _killed_ one day.

Bright silver - yes,  _silver_ , he's not imagining that - eyes peer at him over the fold of bare arms trailing water in thin rivulets, and that voice issues again, raspy and accented and catching in odd places, the shape of words on pale lips granting him sight of a mouth full of sharp teeth.  Or what he _assumes_ to be sharp teeth.  He's not quite close enough to tell, and quite frankly doesn't want to be.  He knows of the daemons that can mimic human form - he'd been attacked by one with the torso of a woman and the tail of a snake once upon a time.

"I was told to perhaps expect the King, not his son."

"You - know my father?"

" _Of_ him.  Never had the pleasure of making his acquaintance before.  What's your name?"  An innocent question wrapped in a cheerful grin, and yet he's hesitant to answer, hesitant to send away the blades the man doesn't seem bothered by even as they dance and whirl overhead, painting him blue and violet.

"What's  _yours?"_

"Ulric.  Nyx Ulric.  Of Galahd."

"And you can, what, randomly sneak through countless security to get here?"

"Oh I suspect you've done much similar, lad.  But if you want to be specific, there was no sneaking  _through_ , but  _under_."

What -?

It's on the tip of Noctis's tongue to ask for clarification, or demand he stop speaking in riddles, when those arms move and hands plant themselves firmly and the rest of his body heaves up out of the water and - and he should - he should -

Probably scream and run.  Immediately.  Right that very moment.  With haste and gusto.

It's no man.  It's a  _creature_ with a human head and human arms and a human torso and a human voice... without human legs.  Cutting off abruptly at the hips and morphing into a tail.  A  _tail_.  Surely he's dreaming.  Memories from the Marilith attack and yet - it's not the same.  Scales too dark to tell their colour, gleaming in the firelight and water droplets clinging to them like little diamonds, down and down and down, rippling as underlying muscles shift, flaring out into fins that are too jagged and sharp to be called elegant.  A fish, rather than a snake, elongating in a sinewy stretch rather than coiling up to spring.

A... a merman, rather than a naga?  Fairy tale rather than nightmare?

A merman who props his chin on one forearm and stretches out the other to pat the ground in front of him with a  _claw-tipped_ hand and Noctis is definitely going to run, shifts his weight to do just that and bolt straight for his father and demand answers, sense, medical help,  _something_ , but that voice.  Again.  Turning his legs to lead and bolting him where he stands, an unspoken spell stronger than Titan's grip would be.

"There's enough room for us both, you know.  I promise I don't bite on the first date, unless you're into that kind of thing."

...

_"What the fuck?"_


	6. "Sit down, I'll get it."

"Sit down, I'll get it."  Noctis flinches at the order in Nyx's voice, harsh despite its strain and the weariness lining his body in poor posture and heavy tread.  He sits because he must, because it's taken every ounce of strength left in him to make it to his quarters under his own power, because he fears he'll collapse with the force of another unsteady sway if he doesn't, because the air between them is tense and uncertain and an argument now will rip apart the delicate, deadly magic he'd woven during the night.

Exhaustion tugs at him, sings to him with sweet tones and a warm touch, promising to soothe all the aches woken in him, the marks on his jaw where Etro's skeletal hand had touched him, her power commanding his body to stand, the blood price paid.  They'll be gone by midday, he knows, remembers from the nights spent with his mother's ghost and the following days by his father's side with Clarus, ready to steady him if he faltered.  He's not so sure about the fresh scars lancing up his arms, though, has no history of his father with short sleeves to know whether they fade in a day or a week or a year, but he feels the call of death through the throb of them, can still taste the ice of it on his tongue, hear the words of its Mistress in his ears.

Sleep would be easier than the tea Nyx resorts to when he's stressed (and there's no denying he's in over his head with the slam of a cupboard door and solid thunk of cup on countertop, so vicious he's surprised it doesn't shatter directly afterward), than the conversation looming on their horizon, but he owes his lover an explanation, as clear and concise as he can make it.  He keeps it at bay by perching on the edge of the cushion, on the edge of comfort, keeps his body stiff and straight and ready for fight or flight.

"Nyx -"

"You died, Noctis.  I saw it, right when Selena vanished, I saw  _you_  -"

_Pale, unmoving, blood at his mouth, his hands, his chest.  Under him, around him, carried on the winds of something foreign, powerful, **wrong** , sucking the flickering mist of Noct's magic into a void Nyx cannot bring himself to look at for long.  His limbs like a puppet's on strings, lifeless and floppy and jolting around all  **wrong** until they snap into action all at once, body held straight and tall, something on his jaw, neck strained, vulnerable, exposed, blood swirling around his shins, higher, higher -_

_Eyes like embers, open and glowing, fluttering, fading to blue, colour to his cheeks all at once._

_A boom of thunder and the void is gone, a spark in his chest where the magic had died, and by his place at the Prince's side, Ignis catches Noctis when he falls._

"- I  _felt_ it, the threads of your magic.  Gone, _snapped_ , just like that.  And yet here we are.  Here  _you_ are.  What the fuck was that?  What happened?  What had you, there at the end?"

So much anger.  So much  _pain_.  Noctis closes his eyes, takes a breath.  Another, and another.   _Clear and concise_ , no room for doubt, leave nothing unsaid.

"I summoned Etro, and the souls in her care.  Death... is my birthright, Nyx."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention somewhere before that I'd keep angst to the later half of these chapters? WHOOPS MY BAD.


End file.
